Eyes a flash of a jay’s feathers in flight; a swirl of dark hair at his crown; skin soft as kid; a cry that could crack her open. Until now, babies had appeared to Jean as vague and indeterminate bundles, each just as the one before, offered up for the requisite congratulation to be given, then handed back with relief. Her own, now here, was the opposite: a tenacious, determined presence, a mass of fierce individual needs and intense and unfathomable wants, all distilled into a body no bigger than an evening slipper. Jean held Alfie in her arms, in awe of the miracle of his body, of limbs and toes and tiny hands. He was eight weeks old now, holding his head up a little by himself. When he’d been undressed for his bath the night before, she had been mesmerised by the little legs, by his arms that made those small involuntary movements which caused him eternal pleasure and surprise. And those eyes that seemed to know the world already for what it was.
He was wearing the Warres’ ancient christening gown, its length swamping him like a wedding dress, its lace yellowed in patches from age, the intricacy of its weave so fragile it felt like it might turn to dust in her hands. She handed him back to his nanny and watched as the older lady deftly wrapped him in the fringed silk shawl and then looked expectantly up at Jean. ‘Shall we go, Lady Warre? They’ll be waiting for us now, I should think.’
Jean nodded and the little trio processed out of the front door, Nanny Hodgson fussing with Alfie’s shawl as she went. They walked along the front of the house, dwarfed by its vast facade of grey stone, and Jean glanced up at the row upon row of windows that stretched above her, the house’s scale still able to catch her off guard; the great pediments which framed each window, the Corinthian columns of the building’s middle that seemed to taper up to the sky. That was her favourite part of the house, where the true Palladian symmetry lay, before Edward’s Victorian forebears had added and subtracted to the pile they had inherited, in wings of different lengths that sprawled out on either side.
On they went, feet crunching across the gravel in the quiet chill of the morning air, until they came to the edge of the east wing of the house, where a stone path, flanked by hedges of tall box – the pride of the gardeners – led them to the Warre family chapel. Edward, his mother, his sister, a scattering of friends, the parson, the bishop: they would all be waiting for them inside. Tenants of the estate too, for this baptism was an event essentially public in nature. The arrival of a son, the firstborn, heralded as if from heaven; the truth hidden from them all, a cruel joke from on high.
The reception of Alfie’s birth had stunned Jean. The pomp and adulation for a boy who shared no blood with the soil on which he was feted. She had overlooked how important the firstborn son was in her adopted country. Back home, Jean and her brother were placed on more or less an equal financial footing, as her mother and uncle had been before them. Here, everything was funnelled directly to this mewling, infant boy, regardless of who or what came after, a much-vaunted child who – should she choose to – she might barely see until he went to school, as far as she could understand the nature of the nursery at Harehope.
She pushed open the heavy oak door to the chapel, felt the hush descend on the guests already sitting in its damp chill, saw the faces of the women she passed brighten as she made her lonely procession down the aisle, involuntary smiles spreading at a glimpse of this long-anticipated baby. Edward was standing by the stone font, in conversation with the bishop. The sun coming in through the stained-glass windows bathed it in a golden light that caught the dust, and the air was mossy, a little stale from lack of use, but there was the scent of roses too from a garland that had been placed around it. She had seen one of the gardeners carrying the flowers in from the glasshouse that morning, as if they might shatter into a million pieces at a touch, so fierce was his concentration. The tenants and old retainers, dressed in their Sunday best, were sitting deferentially at the back of the chapel, delighted at the chance to glimpse this boy who seemed to signify so much: hope, the circularity of life, freedom from death, like the long live the King uttered at a monarch’s departure, without a breath to separate extinction from rebirth. Yet each word of congratulation given to Jean caused the knot in her stomach to tighten and pull, a tug of shame at the truth only she and Edward knew.
Jean stood now by the font, the cool of the chapel stone making her wish she’d worn a thicker coat as she held her son in her arms. She watched Alfie’s eyes, determinedly blue – ‘like his grandmother’s’, people would note as they took in his parents’ distinctly brown eyes, though of course they knew nothing of who he was – and there were little creases beneath them that Nanny told her were tiredness. His eyelids flickered as they struggled to resist the descent of sleep, then closed as he finally gave in, soothed no doubt by the low rumblings of the bishop’s voice as he read the words from the book held open before him, the hands of the young altar boy trembling at the task.
‘Oh merciful God, grant that the old Adam in this Child may be so buried, that the new man may be raised up in him. Grant that all carnal affections may die in him, and that all things belonging to the Spirit may live and grow in him. Grant that he may have power and strength, to have victory, and to triumph against the Devil, the world and the flesh.’
The words washed over her like water, the meaning distant but the effect powerful: incantations of damnation and salvation, of the Devil and his hold, the fragility of infant life, the duty of those gathered. The bishop was looking at her; she realised the time had come for the anointing, and she held Alfie out to him, the old man’s hands shaking a little as he received him. He held him up for the gathered to see, then dipped his head in the water of the font, cupping water and splashing it once, twice, three times over his head before briefly holding him up again and dabbing his forehead with a folded cloth. Alfie had woken at the shock of the water, and then emitted that cry that confounded Jean whenever she heard it, a sound that clawed at her insides as he begged in the only way he knew for it all to stop. He was handed back to her and she rocked him in her arms, shushing him gently as she’d seen Nanny Hodgson do so effortlessly, embarrassed by the eyes of all those people on her, this mother who knew nothing of herself, let alone of this child she rocked in her arms. The cry reached a peak and then gradually ebbed away, and Alfie’s eyes locked onto hers, finding comfort in the connection.
She thought then of the letter that had come that morning from her mother, apologising again that she couldn’t be there, congratulating Jean on what would be one of the happiest days of her life: The gift of children, the next generation set on its path because of that love you and Edward share. It is a miracle, a blessed miracle. You will have made them all so happy, my dearest darling, by giving them a boy. A boy! The letter had begged that Edward change his mind and include the Buckman name in Alfie’s, but he had stood firm. And what power did Jean have over him there?
The congregation stood as one as the service drew to an end, the bishop processing down the aisle first, mitre on, crosier aloft, with the parson shuffling behind him, giving a bright smile to remind the gathered that this was really his domain, that the bishop was an unnecessary flourish. Those assembled were relieved that the formality was over; she could hear it in the chatter that picked up and spread like a ripple through the chapel. Now tea could be had – or better, a drink – and Edward could be patted on the back, with the hint of a smile that always seemed to accompany the congratulation: that it was Edward’s virility, his strength of purpose, that had resulted in the arrival of the necessary boy.
Freddie was standing outside, hands in his pockets against the cold as he waited on the grass, letting the other guests pass with a friendly nod to those he knew. Edward and Jean stopped when they got to him, and Jean gave Alfie a little kiss on the forehead before Nanny took him off for his rest.
Smiling brightly, Freddie patted Edward on the arm, before offering him a cigarette. ‘Well done, well done, old thing.’ Lighting it, Edward exhaled, keeping his eyes on Jean. ‘Must be a relief, mustn’t it?’ Freddie, oblivious to the undercurrents, nudged Jean chummily, with a schoolboy smile. ‘This’ll get Edward off your back for a while at least, if you forgive the expression.’ He took a drag of his cigarette, the smoke blooming in the air between them, and turned to Edward cheerily. ‘You’ve beaten me and Rose to it. I’ll never hear the end of it now. Time for a drink though. I’ll head back to the house. One needs something stiff to kick off these stodgy affairs.’
He left the two of them standing, Jean smiling politely as the remaining guests filed by. Edward kept his eyes on the group now passing, and with a tight smile he muttered to Jean, a fraction too loud, ‘How do you do it?’
She looked up at him, surprised at the tone when others were so near.
‘When you know what this is. How can you do it?’
‘Edward, we can’t do this now.’
‘Do you enjoy this?’ He turned his whole body to face her. They were so close she could smell the tobacco on his breath.
‘Of course not. You know I don’t.’ She felt tears prick at the edge of her eyes, swallowed to keep them at bay. ‘I am sorry for all of this. You know I am. But I can’t change it. We can’t change it. You said as much. So we have to do this. We have to carry on. Try and make something of it.’
They turned and walked in silence back to the house. The path they took was flanked with rose hips, bright as blood, and when the house appeared before them, its stone warm in the sunlight, it seemed to welcome them, grateful to this pair for so diligently securing the next generation. Stokes was standing inside the front door, in his hand a silver salver with coupes of champagne offered for the small toast that would be made later by Edward. The last of the guests were already inside, so, without a word, they took a glass each, and its sharp acid taste was a relief to Jean.
She saw Freddie forcing Edward’s mother to engage, extracting a brittle smile from her eventually; saw him compliment Mrs Hawkins on the flowers as she passed him in the hall, leaving the flush of pleasure behind; saw him remember the name of Mrs Hammersley, who no one ever remembered and who was standing looking lost, an empty glass in her hand. Freddie was so good at these things, far better than Edward, always talking to the people that needed to be talked to, sensing the ones that needed rescuing. He’d known them all for years.
He stood with Jean now, their backs to the fire as they watched the room: the gathering of local gentry, relieved to be included but now enduring the hour of standing around, the thirsty among them hoping to catch Stokes’ eye, the bored waiting for the earliest acceptable opportunity to make their excuses.
‘This will be good for Edward, you know. All of this.’ Freddie dipped his head in the direction of the room.
She looked across at him.
‘He can get on with it all now. His mother hasn’t quite the bite she once had. Look at her now, behaving herself in the corner when before she would have been making sure everyone knew exactly who was in charge.’ Alice was indeed sitting, upright, on a sofa, enduring the parson’s presence beside her with barely concealed contempt as he leaned forward, cheeks flushed from absent-mindedly accepting Stokes’ efficient offers of more champagne. ‘Edward can take his rightful place now, you see. And you, of course – but you know what I mean.’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘The next generation secured. Edward’s done that. And let’s be blunt, that’s part of the deal, isn’t it? He can breathe a bit easier now, and you two can get on with enjoying being married. Must put a bit of a strain on things, until it’s out of the way.’
She smiled weakly. ‘I suppose it must for everyone, mustn’t it?’
Freddie was looking closely at her now, and she could see the fine lines of light and dark that made up his hazel eyes. He took a small intake of breath before continuing, his voice a fraction lower. ‘I know I said it to you before. About Edward not being the easiest. But now you’ve got Alfie, and his mother has been put in her place a bit, I really hope you’ll settle into things here. You do look so worried sometimes. The weight of the world—’
She looked down, giving a short laugh. ‘Do I?’
‘Rose said she’d love to see you more in London.’
‘I’d like that very much.’
‘Well, I’ll make sure she arranges that. It can be quite cliquey here, people who’ve known each other from birth, and love to remind one of that—’
They were interrupted by Charlotte breaking in, kissing Freddie quickly on the cheek, acknowledging Jean with the briefest of smiles. ‘Freddie, darling. So good to see you. Have you seen the Hamiltons are here? Rose will die if she hears what happened to Louise at Elton. It’s too killing.’
Charlotte embarked on a story that she knew excluded Jean, emitting great peals of laughter as she tapped Freddie’s arm for emphasis, dropping her voice and leaning in so all Jean could see was the back of her head. So Jean drifted on, said hello to a few more guests, swapped nonsense with another new mother about dimples and bootees, went to look in on Alfie in the nursery, but all the while she carried Freddie’s words with her, turning them over in her mind, feeling the truth of them. What all of this should have meant for her and Edward; the liberation they should have felt in the fulfilment of their duty to this place, to this house.
Later, she and Edward stood for photographs in the entrance hall, at the foot of the oak-panelled staircase where Warres looked down on them from every aspect, row upon row of them reaching to the ceiling, in frames of elaborate carved gilt, with high foreheads and unforgiving stares, in flamboyant cuffs and ruffs of silk, painfully reproduced by artists now long forgotten. Edward stood at her shoulder, directed by the photographer who kept up a constant flow of jolly banter as he edged them this way and that, minute shuffles and tweaks till he was satisfied, giving a delighted little clap of his hands. She held Alfie in her arms, asleep once more, and as they turned and smiled, in that split second as the flash went and the bulb popped, she felt the lie crystallise and Freddie’s hopes vanish. Her husband’s arm stiff at her waist, channelling only resentment and hate, his sense of self diminished further; she knew he felt it too. But the outer shell was now perfected, for all the world to celebrate.
Dressing for dinner that night had felt too much, so Jean had excused herself, taking her food instead on a tray in her room and then stealing up to the nursery floor as soon as she could. It lay at the top of the house, running the length of one whole side of the building, with windows that only started above an adult’s head height, giving the run of rooms that made it up a dark, underground feel. Nanny Hodgson slept up there, as did another nursemaid, whose sole job was to launder Alfie’s collection of miniature clothes and to bring Nanny’s food up and down the five flights of servants’ stairs, three times a day, notwithstanding her mid-morning biscuits and substantial afternoon tea.
Nanny Hodgson sat, head nodding, in the worn armchair, a tartan rug thrown over its back to cover the patches where the upholstery had rubbed thin from use. The door to Alfie’s room was ajar, and Jean slipped past her and went in, pushing it open quietly, wary of disturbing him. He lay tucked into his bassinet, head turned to one side, arms raised up either side of him, which she now knew meant he was held in a deep sleep. He was tucked in tight, but the narrow dome of his chest rose and fell with each small breath. The ripple of dreams under his thin blue-grey lids held her there, and she felt the overwhelming urge then to protect him from anything, everything, each nightmare that would wake him, each cruel word spoken to break him. The fragility of it all overwhelmed her and she lay her hand gently on his chest. The touch allowed something instinctive to feed into her, the force of the bond between them that the shameful truth could not break through.
She remembered when she had first set eyes on him, as the fog of ether cleared and the doctor presented her with the small bundle, her son, a boy. As he watched her take in the enormity of it all he patted her shoulder. ‘We’ve told your husband. Delighted with the news.’
Edward had come in half an hour later, when she was sitting propped up on a nest of pillows, her hair still damp with sweat. The nurse was fussing about the room; her presence holding Edward back. He had looked at Jean with a face strangely contorted, his jaw so tight it seemed mechanical. He had briefly kissed her on the cheek, his skin feeling cool as glass against hers, and he had smiled, a stiff smile, and muttered, ‘Well done, darling’ before leaving her. But what could he do? Another man’s son, celebrated like a gift from the gods, the continuation of his family and all the promise of generations to come loaded onto this tiny stranger’s shoulders. And so Jean had lain there against those pillows of softest down, in her bedroom that was suddenly wholly unfamiliar, as if the act of birth had carried her on a journey to an entirely new world, deposited her on a shore at low tide that stretched on and on to the horizon, where she felt loneliness bleed out before her to eternity.
Jean walked back out on to the landing where Nanny was sitting, head still nodding under a splay of chins. She sat in the chair opposite, not wanting to wake her but not wanting to go downstairs yet. The old woman was like a soldier getting rest where he could, though, and she slept lightly and stirred easily, sitting up now, rubbing her eyes, instinctively patting her hair.
‘I’m so sorry, Lady Warre, I must have drifted off.’ Little pockets of soft skin sat like crescent moons beneath her eyes.
‘Don’t apologise. I just had a look in at Alfie and then I couldn’t pull myself away.’
‘Oh, he’s such a dear, isn’t he? And what a good little sleeper, like his father was.’ She smoothed her skirt, shifting in her seat to settle into the telling of one of her well-worn tales. Jean had learned that these stories were frequent, extensive and often had no need for an audience at all, let alone an attentive one.
‘Oh?’ Jean knew what was required of her.
‘Oh yes, he was terribly good. A content little baby.’ She paused. ‘A little trickier when he was a boy, but that was to be expected. Needed to get himself heard, I should think, with an older brother off doing everything first and a sister who wanted everyone’s attention.’
‘Yes, I suppose. It was just me and my brother growing up. It was quite easy for me, I think.’
‘Well, Lady Warre left me to get on with things up here, so I was sure always to try and keep everything as fair as I could on my floor. Not favouring Charles too much, which they all naturally did. Oh, but it was hard not to – he was such a delightful little boy. So full of joy, and terribly funny.’ She looked up at Jean, small creases fanning out at the edges of her eyes. ‘But that’s another time, isn’t it?’
She was settling into Jean’s company now, and her face took on the glow that a conversation about her old charges always ignited.
‘Now, I can remember when Charlotte was a girl, and Edward was learning to walk, so he must have been one and a half or thereabouts, and Lord and Lady Warre were away. Up with friends in Scotland, and I was here with all three of them. And, oh, there was a tremendous storm. So great that we lost several trees in the park, and one fell right across the gates to the drive. I sat up the whole night long, terrified that the children would wake and be frightened.’
As she half-listened, Jean felt herself being pulled into this house, woven into the fabric of Harehope, the history of it, with this marriage she had made, and now this child she had borne. She felt the reality of it suffocating her, the house on top of her, creaking and groaning with the weight of its judgement. And then the words of the service – the promises they had given before God to protect this child, to guide him to good and to right – holding her to it, but it was all a lie. He was hers, not theirs, yet he would carry their crest, their title, be seen as a measure of their success or failure. But she was his mother, oh, the pain and the bliss of it tearing through her till she thought she would break open.
She looked at Nanny and then to the window above her, the stars like flecks of dust behind the panes of glass that were thick and warped with age. The old woman’s voice carried on, rising and falling, but Jean was drawn instead to the night that lay beyond the nursery. It was so black out there that she felt the darkness might pull her out and swallow her up entirely.